by Peg Brantley
“Yat.” A voice called from behind him.
“Yat.” Cade replied.
Mex decided it must be some kind of greeting.
“What’ll you have?” A waitress stood next to their table. A hundred pounds soaking wet, she looked to be in her mid-forties. A few wrinkles and kind eyes.
Mex pointed to Cade. “Ladies first.”
“I already know what Cade is having. She’s having whatever I surprise her with. It’s our tradition.” The
waitress grinned.
Cade leaned in. “You can’t go wrong at Boudreaux’s. They make everything from scratch and from fresh. And it doesn’t matter who’s cooking, it’s done right.”
“It’s done right, with good
lagniappe, or my granddaddy’s ghost gets downright mean.”
Cade laughed. Mex thought he might like hearing that throaty sound every day.
“Bring my friend a sampler. A little bit o’ dis and a little bit o’ dat. Let him see for himself. And bring both of us a home brew.”
When the waitress left, Mex arched an eyebrow toward Cade LeBlanc. “Am I still in America?”
“You’re in the best part of America.”
“Yat?”
That laugh again. “Ah… you question our language. Yat can work itself into our conversations in a couple of ways. It’s a standard greeting, a conversation opener. It’s also used to describe a true native of N’awlins.”
Mex nodded. Just as he thought. “And land app?”
Cade screwed her face up. “Say again?”
“Land app. Or lawn app.
Something like that.”
This time she laughed louder. A few diners looked their way and Mex felt himself blushing. Good thing it didn’t show very well.
“Lagniappe. It’s when someone gives a little extra that the customer doesn’t pay for. A thank you—like a baker’s dozen. Something to sweeten the deal.”
The waitress returned with two frosted glasses holding a dark amber liquid.
“Home brew?”
“If you’ve ever tasted beer this good anywhere else in the world, I’ll eat the next gator raw and all by myself.”
Mex stuck his nose into the glass and sniffed. Took a tiny sip. Then a bigger sip. Finally he swallowed. “Damn.”
“Boudreaux’s knows more than just a little cookin’.”
“Is this legal?”
Cade stiffened a little and jutted her chin into the air. “They have a license.”
He’d erased a lot of the goodwill he’d been building. “Sorry.”
She sniffed. “It’s okay. You probably can’t help it.”
It was Mex’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, you’ve got that right. Once a lawman, always a lawman.”
“Since you brought it up, why are you helping out a member of a drug cartel?”
Sobered, Mex replied, “A little girl’s life is at stake.”
“Maybe I should rephrase my question. Why would a member of a drug cartel seek your help? Why would he even think you’d say yes? I checked you out. You don’t need the money.”
Touché. He guessed she’d probably figured out that he knew about her past as well. “It’s personal.”
“Yeah, well. It gets real personal when I’m in the middle of a large number of hostile people trying to pull out someone who thinks that’s exactly where they are supposed to be. Someone who thinks I’m the enemy. So excuse me if I have a few questions.”
The waitress drew up with two platters filled with the best-smelling food Mex had ever experienced. The presentation was elegant. Beautiful. If this was a crab shack, he wondered what a four-star restaurant in these parts might have to offer. He had to keep
swallowing or he’d drool.
“See what I mean? And you haven’t even had a taste.” Cade unfolded her napkin onto her lap. “You might want to consider hooking yours into your neckline. Unless you’re used to this, things can get a little out of hand.”
Mex considered, then stuck the napkin inside the top of his shirt. The food—this fabulous food—was acting as a mediator for their discussion. A conversation bordering on things he wasn’t ready to talk about.
He took a bite of something he couldn’t quite identify. “This tastes a little like chicken, only better.” He thought she’d say something about frogs or alligators.
“Well, my new friend, that’s because it is chicken. But done the Boudreaux way. You won’t taste any better, even from your mama.”
Mex remembered his mom. She was beautiful but not the best cook in the world. Thank goodness for cheese and salsa. He took another bite. What the hell did they do to make chicken taste so… so… extravagant? If he finished this case, and finished it well, he would be back here to talk to the cooks—hell, the chefs—at a little crab shack out in the swamps of Louisiana.
After indulging in a most
sumptuous meal, he pushed his chair back and relaxed.
“Are you ready to answer my question? The personal bit?”
“Do you know what happened to my family?” Mex wiped his mouth with the huge napkin. Boudreaux’s took care of every need of their customers.
Cade shook her head.
Mex waited while strong black coffee was served, then told her his story about that horrible day in Agua Prieta.
“I’m sorry, Mex. No one should have to deal with that kind of loss.”
He closed his eyes and forced the images away. “I hunted their killers. I tracked them through Mexico to
Venezuela and finally to Honduras.”
“Did you find them?”
“They were killed before I could get to them.”
“Killed? How?”
“By their own cartel. It involved hatchets, mallets, and buzzards. The only way I know for sure it was them was someone videotaped the killings and made sure I got a copy. There was no evidence left, not even a skull. It seems I was getting in the way of their daily operations. It made sense to get rid of the two people I’d been hunting half way around the world so they could focus on the business at hand.”
“Why didn’t they just kill you?”
Mex blew out air in a half laugh, half grimace. “I asked a friend of mine, an old time Federale, the same thing. He said there was one message in a dead lawman, but a bigger message in the death of a lawman’s family and the world watching him fall apart. Making me the walking dead suited their
purposes at the time.”
“And now? Why are you doing this?”
“I told you. A little girl is in danger and because of my contacts I might be able to save her.”
“Sorry. I’m not buying it. Why did her father come to you?”
Mex thought about the promise of information. Of a direct lead to the man who put out the kill order on his family. This was not the time to share. “You’d have to ask him.”
“Fine. Be that way. Do you have all of the information I wanted?”
“Most of it.”
“Give me what you’ve got.”
Mex detailed the background Darius had received on Pilar. Cade took notes and asked pertinent questions.
“What about Luis Alvarez?”
“We’re still digging.”
“You can’t think I’d ever be able to take any kind of action without knowing what I was up against. Even if I could find the exact location of Dia, going in without full data could be suicide. I told you I needed to know everything.”
“And I’ve given you everything I have.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Damn it, Cade. A girl’s life is in danger.”
“I get that. But going in without intel on the people involved doesn’t help her, and could kill both of us.”
“We need to formulate a plan based on what we know now, even though we don’t know crap. There isn’t much time.” Mex would have grabbed her and shaken her if he believed it would help. “Do you get what’s at stake?”
“I get it. I also get that if we go in
half-assed, she’s dead. I need as much as I can get.”
“You should be able to achieve results even without knowing
everything.”
“What are you saying? Are you saying I’m overly cautious?”
“If the shoe fits.”
“I’d like all of us to survive this.”
Mex sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. In a moment,
conversations in the restaurant filtered back into his awareness. He looked out of the large windows. Cyprus and tupelo gum trees spiked out of the water like green sentinels. A Louisiana heron zeroed in on some prey and made a strike in the murky water. As intriguing as this part of the country was, he had a momentary pang for the fresh air of Colorado.
Mex pulled his gaze back to the woman who sat in front of him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
Cade narrowed her eyes and brought the beer up to her lips. Rather than taking a drink, she tilted it to the side. “I like your passion.”
“Yeah, well. Passion is one thing. Action is something else. But thanks.”
Cade took a long swallow and set the empty bottle back on the table. “Where are you looking for information on Luis Alvarez?”
“He and Pilar are a couple. They had to meet somewhere. Darius is checking out the community college Pilar attended. If we can get any bit of
information, like an address, we can find out everything about him including where he might be right now. I’ve also got Vicente Vega doing some discreet inquiries within his own cartel.”
“I have another idea.”
“Yeah?”
“I can talk to a few of my own contacts. If they are deeply into either Santeria or Santa Muerte, someone might know who he is.”
“Good.”
Mex’s phone rang. Darius. “What do you have?”
“You were right. Luis Alvarez was an assistant to a professor at the college the same time as Pilar attended the school. The address he gave isn’t good any more, but the emergency contact is. And get this—she lives in Metairie.”
Mex suddenly remembered what had struck him when the idea of
Louisiana first came up. The gulf coast location had come up in their last staff interview at the Vega compound “What’s her name?”
“Sanchez. Margarita. She’s Alvarez’s grandmother.”
“Get me whatever you can on her. Find out who else is living there now, and get me some background on them as well.” Mex paused. “Good work.”
He ended the call and turned to Cade. “We’ve got a lead on Alvarez. And she’s local.”
A clap of thunder and rain fell to the earth, unleashed and wild. Cade barely seemed to notice. “You won’t be going very far in this. If the parking lot isn’t already a swimming hole, the road has turned into a river. Sit back and relax.”
“Relax? You’ve got to be
kidding.”
“Humor me. Just don’t get all anxious or depressed on me.”
Mex sniffed. “Relax it is.”
Rain slammed against the
windows and the noise echoed in the large dining room. The powerful storm was at odds with the reflective mood he slipped into. The idea to relax must have worked.
Mex watched the candlelight wash gently over Cade’s face in the storm darkened restaurant. He wanted to tell her she was a beautiful woman but he wasn’t ready to go there. They sat in comfortable silence and listened to the tempest outside.
An hour later he was on his way back to the hotel and wondering if he’d missed an opportunity.
CHAPTER TWENTYTHREE
The next morning, Mex sat outside the small brick home and watched.
Margarita Sanchez lived there with her daughter, granddaughter and greatgrandson. He’d been surprised by all of the brick homes even in the poorest neighborhoods until he realized that frame homes would probably rot quickly in the damp.
The daughter and granddaughter had taken off for work. Darius found out they both had jobs at the Harrah’s in New Orleans. That left the old woman and her great-grandson. Mex checked his watch. Then he called Darius, glad they had a friendship that pulled back together after one of them, usually him, acted like a jackass.
“The daughter and granddaughter have left,” Mex updated his partner. “If we’re right, when you call and start asking questions about Luis, she’ll leave. If she takes the little boy, she’ll never notice a tail.”
Once they’d gotten the hit on Luis Alvarez’s grandmother, they were able to unearth a ton of information. Most important, Chase had called to let him know that Luis was heavily involved in both Santeria and the La Familia cartel. Because local law enforcement officers had been shadowing him off and on for years, he’d developed an old-style way of communicating that had served him well. Like the spies of old, he had drop off points where notes could be left if someone had to contact him. Depending on the urgency, he’d find a way to communicate verbally or in person. About the time the local guys figured this out their attention was drawn to more immediate concerns. A small time Santeria follower with ties to a drug cartel would have to wait.
Mex looked at his watch again. If their plan worked, Grandma should be heading out any minute now.
He waited. Nothing.
Three minutes. Five. Maybe they’d been wrong. He was about to call
Darius to try and figure out what had happened when Margarita Sanchez emerged from the front door, a bright yellow and blue scarf over her head. She was tugging a reluctant boy down the steps to the driveway. The woman herded her great-grandson into the passenger side of an old Mazda, then glanced up and down the street before she walked around the car and got in. After a couple of failed starts, the engine caught and she backed out into the street. As she passed by him, Mex could see her fussing with her passenger. Good.
He pulled up and into the nearest driveway, then backed out to follow. His cell rang. Darius.
“It worked. I’m tailing her now.” “When you get to the drop, call me with the address. I’ll run a program to find out the names of all of the property owners in the area.”
“What if he’s a tenant?”
“That’ll take longer.”
“I’m hoping Alvarez will come by and I can follow him. I don’t want to have to wait for a damn database of names.”
“Any idea where she’s heading?”
“Into the city. That’s all I’ve got right now.”
“Let me know if I can help.”
He ended the call and worked to follow the Mazda without appearing too obvious. The woman drove slower than a sloth and he was afraid she’d notice anyone who didn’t pass her. When she exited I-10 onto Orleans Avenue, he had a good idea where she was going. He hoped the French Quarter wasn’t packed with tourists. Even moving slowly, she could be easy to lose.
His phone rang. VV. “Anderson.”
“Have you found my sister?”
If the man didn’t have Sedona’s life in his hands, Mex would have shared a few choice words for
interrupting him while he was working to do exactly that. “Tracking a lead right now.”
“This Luis Alvarez person?”
Shit. “How did you hear about Alvarez?”
“I have learned to take an interest in anyone who interests my father. When he wouldn’t tell me why he was asking about this person—someone I’d never heard of before—I naturally assumed he might be connected to the disappearance of my sister. My father does not ask idle questions. I can assist you in locating him if you’d like.”
All Mex needed was more people stirring the pot. “I think we’re close. Thanks for your offer though.”
“Hey, it’s not only my sister’s life at stake.”
“If any harm comes to Sedona you and I will get to know each other on a very personal level.”
Mex hung up. He had nothing more to say and the Mazda had pulled onto Basin Street and then into the parking lot for St. Louis Cemetery No.1. Mex pulled in behind her and found a pa
rking space where he could watch the old woman’s actions without being too conspicuous. This part of the cemetery hadn’t changed since he and Maria had celebrated their anniversary in the French Quarter.
* * Margarita Sanchez sat in the front seat with her head bowed. Praying? Could be she was praying for Luis, could be she always said a prayer when she went to one of the cities of the dead. He
wondered what the entity’s name was she prayed to. She said something to the boy, then they both emerged.
The woman had her pocketbook looped over her forearm as she folded a piece of paper. She’d been writing a note, not praying. Smaller and smaller she folded the paper until it fit neatly into her palm. With her free hand, she grabbed the boy and pulled him to her side as they made their way to the entrance gates. Her bright yellow and blue scarf caught the sun like a spotlight.
A walking tour was forming and Mex debated whether to let them remain between himself and Sanchez. Tourists came from all over to see the tombs, or vaults, of the oldest cemetery in New Orleans. The unique method of burial, necessary because of the water level, made for some interesting history. He slipped out of the car.
Mex paused with the group and heard the guide say that the family tombs dated back generations.
“But they’re so small. How can they hold all of those coffins?” a fannypacked, umbrella-toting visitor asked.
The guide smiled. He’d obviously heard this question often. “Some are quite large, but you’re right—even the big ones would run out of room after a few generations.” The guide got a conspiratorial look on his face. “Once a body has been in there for at least two years, it can be placed in a specially made burial bag and removed to either the back or side of the vault.”
Synchronized dying , Mex thought. He decided at the last minute that the group would probably be even slower than Grandma so he scooted around them while they were still gathering with their guide.
The old woman was brave to walk this cemetery on her own. Muggers often hid behind the freestanding tombs and relieved unwary explorers, also known as stupid tourists, of their cash and jewelry. Mex figured that Margarita Sanchez knew the twisted, narrow paths and would not walk into a dangerous dead end. She was marching with a purpose, not wandering around in awe of the surroundings. That, plus the fact she wasn’t alone, probably made her less of a target. Even a young boy would make her less of an easy target, and the muggers he’d known were all for easy.